7.19.2010

My life, tomorrow, will errupt with activity. I will be teaching an English camp in the morning from 9am-12:50 pm, and then I'll be heading to work as usual from 2-9. The camp is 10 days long and I must have temporarily lost my mind, because it coincides with our summer break here at ELP. Which means that instead of a week off, I will have a week of teaching middle schoolers who can barely say their ABCs English. But I will have my afternoons free. And I will have a nice chunk of change in the bank afterward. I'm also this week catching up with my running plan. I'm living in week 5, but running week 4. I think I will sleep well. So, there's that.

Also, I wanted to tell you that last night I was propped up on my elbows, lying on my stomach in bed, reading Why I Wake Early, a collection of poems from Mary Oliver. And after I read page 43, I had to flip over onto my back, sling one hand over my chest, and let the tears soak back up into my eyes as I stared at the ceiling. This poem devastated me. Just devastated me. 91% of that devastation was from it's beauty and perfection. The other 9% of the devastation stemmed from the fact that I didn't write it first. Not that I'm capable of Mary Oliver quality. But whenever I read good writing, really good writing, there's some twinge deep in my chest. It's related to regret and I think it's a cousin of jealousy. But not quite. Anyway, back to being devastated. It was just that good.

It's the middle of summer, so I will share this mid-summer poem with you. Be careful. You might have to flip over onto your back and take a few deep breaths. I plan to live in this poem for the next two weeks.

Luna

In the early curtains
of the dusk,
it flew,
a slow galloping

this way and that way
through the trees
and under the trees.
I live

in the openmindedness
of not knowing enough
about anything.
It was beautiful.

It was silent.
It didn't even have a mouth.
But it wanted something,
it had a purpose

and a few precious hours
to find it,
and I suppose it did.
The next evening

it lay on the ground
like a broken leaf
and didn't move,
which hurt my heart

which is another small thing
that doesn't know much.
When this happened it was about the middle of summer,

which also has its purposes
and only so many precious hours.
How quietly,
and not with any assignment from us,

or even a small hint
of understanding,
everything that needs to be done
is done.

~Mary Oliver

P.S. I wrote this post instead of scavenging for my dinner tonight. Because sometimes, poetry trumps hunger.

My life, tomorrow, will errupt with activity. I will be teaching an English camp in the morning from 9am-12:50 pm, and then I'll be heading to work as usual from 2-9. The camp is 10 days long and I must have temporarily lost my mind, because it coincides with our summer break here at ELP. Which means that instead of a week off, I will have a week of teaching middle schoolers who can barely say their ABCs English. But I will have my afternoons free. And I will have a nice chunk of change in the bank afterward. I'm also this week catching up with my running plan. I'm living in week 5, but running week 4. I think I will sleep well. So, there's that.

Also, I wanted to tell you that last night I was propped up on my elbows, lying on my stomach in bed, reading Why I Wake Early, a collection of poems from Mary Oliver. And after I read page 43, I had to flip over onto my back, sling one hand over my chest, and let the tears soak back up into my eyes as I stared at the ceiling. This poem devastated me. Just devastated me. 91% of that devastation was from it's beauty and perfection. The other 9% of the devastation stemmed from the fact that I didn't write it first. Not that I'm capable of Mary Oliver quality. But whenever I read good writing, really good writing, there's some twinge deep in my chest. It's related to regret and I think it's a cousin of jealousy. But not quite. Anyway, back to being devastated. It was just that good.

It's the middle of summer, so I will share this mid-summer poem with you. Be careful. You might have to flip over onto your back and take a few deep breaths. I plan to live in this poem for the next two weeks.

Luna

In the early curtains
of the dusk,
it flew,
a slow galloping

this way and that way
through the trees
and under the trees.
I live

in the openmindedness
of not knowing enough
about anything.
It was beautiful.

It was silent.
It didn't even have a mouth.
But it wanted something,
it had a purpose

and a few precious hours
to find it,
and I suppose it did.
The next evening

it lay on the ground
like a broken leaf
and didn't move,
which hurt my heart

which is another small thing
that doesn't know much.
When this happened it was about the middle of summer,

which also has its purposes
and only so many precious hours.
How quietly,
and not with any assignment from us,

or even a small hint
of understanding,
everything that needs to be done
is done.

~Mary Oliver

P.S. I wrote this post instead of scavenging for my dinner tonight. Because sometimes, poetry trumps hunger.